


Blessed Be the Tie that Binds

by brilliantsnafu



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 19th Century, Adventure & Romance, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Budding Love, Character(s) of Color, Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Found Family, Good Omens Holiday Swap, Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, Healing, Historical, Implied/Referenced Torture, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Partners (Good Omens), LGBTQ Character, M/M, Miracles, Multi, New Orleans, Other, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Queer Character, Queer Families, Queer Youth, Torture, United States, Yellow Fever, additional tags to be added (and rating possibly raised further down the line), and the queerphobes get what's coming to them in the end, epidemic, just want to warn y'all of that, queer community, queerphobic christianity, the church/its leaders are queerphobic and want to wipe out the community, the focus is primarily on the community and aziraphale and crowley's roles in it though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22899607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliantsnafu/pseuds/brilliantsnafu
Summary: It's the turn of the 19th century in New Orleans, Louisiana. Yellow fever ravages the city and what's worse, the epidemic has been weaponized against the queer community. A certain demon and angel have come to help, but will they be a match for the wicked Father Richard and his otherworldly accomplices?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. Prologue: 'Round Me Falls the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SegantEnfield](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegantEnfield/gifts).



> I was the pinch hitter creating SegantEnfield's gift for the 2019 Good Omens Holiday Exchange. Hope it was worth the wait!

Long before Pestilence was forced into early retirement by the advent of penicillin and vaccinations, he enjoyed taking his work on the road (or on the water, as it were today). He was heading up a river called the Mississippi, to a place called New Orleans, Louisiana. Bringing new diseases to a port city was always exciting, but there was something special about this one at the turn of the nineteenth century.

Pestilence stood at the bow, his long, stained coat flapping behind him. He breathed in the fresh air and exhaled disease, savoring the taste as if it were a fine wine. A buzzing in his ear told him he wasn’t the only one ready to see the city appear around the next bend.

“Not long now, my friends.”

For a few centuries he had been experimenting with mosquitoes, and they had proven marvelous little helpers in spreading his current disease of choice: yellow fever. And in New Orleans, a city below sea level and surrounded by swampland, where they couldn’t even bury the dead because the water table saturated the ground just a few feet down? 

Why, it was perfect. A perfect partnership.

The French Quarter came into view at last, and there at the center stood St. Louis Cathedral.

_What a beautiful place for a funeral_ , he thought.

Yes, Pestilence believed he and his swarm of friends would enjoy themselves in the Crescent City.

......

The next few years treated Pestilence well. He regularly worked overtime in the summer months, but he so enjoyed filling the mausoleums in the city’s cemeteries that he hardly minded. He might have stayed a few more years if he thought the now-endemic yellow fever would fizzle out without him, but before the next summer surge he was on a boat leaving as he had come. 

The person he knew would continue his work? A holy man by the name of Father Richard Head.

Father Richard had arrived in New Orleans a few years before Pestilence. He quickly rose through the ranks of the church using his debonair charm and passion for ridding the city of heathens, sinners, and sodomites. He was prepared to do anything. He just needed a sign.

Then the epidemic hit, and the angels came to him. They brought with them a plan. And the young, healthy priest dropped to his knees and thanked the Lord for this opportunity to remove this sinful stain from his city, to transform his divine words into mighty deeds.


	2. I Walk in Danger All the Way

In the blazing heat of a July afternoon, a principality arrived in New Orleans. Even as he stepped off the dock and onto the gray cobblestone streets, Aziraphale couldn’t quite believe his request had been approved. He had asked Heaven for a temporary reassignment to Louisiana, particularly New Orleans because of the yellow fever epidemic. (Although he couldn’t deny he had spent much of the time on the voyage over thinking about new cuisines he wanted to try.) It really was because of the epidemic though. 

From his breast pocket he pulled a folded paper that had been opened so many times the deep creases had begun to tear. He skimmed over the names of the dead and the names of those who were searching for them. There had been alarming whispers among his social circles back in London. It seemed that anyone with a queer family member or dear friend who had emigrated or simply visited the area had contracted the fever and passed away. Some weren’t confirmed dead but had stopped responding to letters, making their loved ones fear the worst. He flipped the paper over to where he had continued to add names as he thought of them. (For some he had no name, just descriptions. The child he had met in the bakery who was soon to be a cabin boy, the American who had finished their education at Oxford and couldn’t wait to return back home to their lover, the older lady from the market who was finally ready to live her truth and looked forward to a fresh start across the sea.) The crease between Aziraphale’s brow deepened with each line he read.

What was truly chilling was that those in the city had access to doctors and the hospital, had the best chance of survival. _So why were so many members of their community dying?_

Aziraphale needed to find out why, and fix it if he could. He squared his shoulders and set off in the direction of the hospital run by the Ursuline sisters. However, the smart click of his heels quickly tapered off when he began to notice the number of looks he was attracting. The French Revolution a not-so-distant memory, he realized his attire (near identical to what got him locked up in the Bastille) set him apart. Though dressing for New Orleans high society didn’t come with the risk of death by guillotine, he needed to keep a low profile. Aziraphale ducked into an alley and threw a few more glances at the men passing by before closing his eyes and snapping a new set of clothes into existence. 

“Hmmm,” he smoothed the simple cotton vest over his now frill-less white shirt, checked that his watch was in the left pocket. He now wore a pair of trousers similar to what he had seen on men at the docks, and with this oppressive heat he thought it best to lose the coat entirely. His shoes became nondescript, but Aziraphale made sure they still kept their brilliant shine. (He _did_ have standards, after all.) 

Lastly, the angel reached up to his bare neck. Why, he may as well have been naked for how exposed he felt! He was about to miracle up a neckerchief when something rustled further down the alleyway. He paused for a moment, then took a few steps further into the shadows.

“Hello? Someone there?” A small gasp was all the answer he needed. Aziraphale headed further in.

He found the child wedged as far back as possible between the barrels against the wall. She couldn’t have been more than eight years old. She was shivering and sweating; her headwrap had come loose, revealing wisps of dark, tight curls that fell across her eyes. But even partially hidden there was no mistaking her yellowed eyes or the fever burning inside them.

“You poor dear. Please don’t be frightened. I’d like to help,” he held out a hand. “What is your name?” He received no response.

Well, at least not from the child in front of him.

“ _Get away from my sister._ ”

Aziraphale turned and looked up from where he knelt, though he didn’t have to look far. This child was older but only stood a few heads above him from his position on the ground. Yes, he could see the family resemblance. This older girl had the same brown skin, the same bright eyes (though hers burned with guardian ferocity and not fever). Her cheeks were a bit sunken and the bones of her elbows and wrists were more pronounced than they should be. _Malnourished_ , Aziraphale thought. Though she had no signs of yellow fever, he doubted she was in much better shape than the little one.

She did have a hefty piece of firewood leveled at his head though. Aziraphale put both hands up in front of him to show he meant no harm.

“I'm not here to hurt anyone,” he said in an even voice. The older girl adjusted her grip.

“Leave before I bash your head in,” she said through gritted teeth. Aziraphale heard it though. The tiny waver in her voice.

“May I try something? It will be quick, and I think it may help. And then if you still want to bash my head in, have at it.”

A fair number of emotions flickered in the older girl’s eyes. The ones Aziraphale recognized were confusion, and hope, and a desire to trust him. He smiled at that one.

“What is your sister’s name?” 

Another flicker of confusion that Aziraphale didn’t understand. The girl eventually answered, “Estelle.”

“Ah, a lovely name,” Aziraphale turned back to the little one who hadn’t budged from her hiding place. He caught her eye again, “Estelle, dear, would you please come out?”

“It’s okay, starlight. I won’t let him hurt you,” her sister said, her makeshift club still hovering near Aziraphale’s ear.

Slowly, the younger girl crawled out and let the angel guide her into a sitting position in front of him. She leaned back against the building, exhausted from that small movement alone.

“That’s it. You’re doing wonderfully,” Aziraphale cooed. He took her two small hands into one of his own. He placed his other hand on her burning forehead.

“Ready?” And once Estelle nodded, he closed his eyes and began. A warm, golden light enveloped the angel and spread from his hands through the young girl. That warmth poured into her wide eyes, and when they closed as well the light grew until it was blinding. And then it went as swiftly as it came. The alley settled back into its usual mundanity, long shadows and cracked walls and questionable puddles all accounted for.

“Estelle?” The older girl knelt beside her, all bludgeoning-related thoughts forgotten. It surprised Aziraphale how quickly she dropped her guard given that she had just witnessed one of his more dramatic miracles. (Not that he was complaining, mind you. It was a refreshing change to the terror and disbelief that had plagued his witnessed miracles over the last few centuries.)

The older girl brushed the back of her hand against the little one’s forehead. She found no fever there. She brushed a questioning hand across Estelle’s muscles that had ached, her stomach that had refused to keep anything down. The little one answered with a shake of her head each time. The surprise in Estelle’s clear, bright eyes melted into confused delight. Aziraphale practically glowed over the sisters’ relieved laughter and desperately happy hugs.

It would have been a nice way to end his first afternoon in New Orleans. Unfortunately, that was not to be.

“ _There_ you are, you little _rats_.” 

They all turned to see the new shadow in the alley, blocking the entrance. It looked down on the girls with a wicked grin. 

“Finally got ya.”


	3. The Clouds of Judgement Gather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for explicit queerphobia (transphobia in particular) and verbal/emotional child abuse.

There was a man at the end of the alley, an orderly from the hospital, Aziraphale guessed. He was tall and broad shouldered with light, ashy hair only a few shades darker than his skin. He didn’t appear winded even though his crisp, white shirt was soaked with sweat and his face was red. The angel wondered if he knew that his grin looked like an animal baring its teeth rather than a smile.

Beside Aziraphale the girls shifted. The older was on her feet and the younger drew closer to him, gripping his sleeve. The orderly’s grin only widened.

_Oh, yes. He knows._

Aziraphale put on a proper smile and stood.

“Hello. Is there something I can help you with?” 

“And just who are you?” The man spat. Aziraphale kept smiling, but some of its softness faded. 

“My name is Mist-- ah, I mean, Doctor Fell.” On the voyage over he had decided hiding in plain sight was best. If the sick came to him and left cured, who would question it?

“A doctor? You?” 

Well, except for this rather blunt orderly.

“I assure you that I am,” the angel said. For the first time the man took his eyes off Estelle and gave Aziraphale his full attention.

“You new?” 

“I’ve just disembarked, yes. What gave me away?” Aziraphale asked with feigned interest. Even as he attempted to keep the conversation light, he could feel the anxiety rolling off the girls in waves.

“You obviously don’t know how we do things here in New Orleans. You can’t just go around helping people.”

Aziraphale still smiled at the orderly, but it no longer reached his eyes. 

“The Hippocratic Oath would beg to differ,” he said stiffly.

“Ahh, but would you go against the will of God, man of medicine?” That caught Aziraphale off guard. He blinked a few times, cracking the ice that had settled into his usually warm eyes.

“I’m... not sure I follow.”

“The Lord brought down this plague to rid the city of the irredeemable. Let them receive their punishment in accordance with His will.”

Aziraphale smothered his outrage at hearing the capital H on ‘His.’ 

_Shut up. Ignore it. Focus_ , he told himself. This was the kind of information he had sailed across the world for, spilling out of this man not an hour since he disembarked! He also had two young charges to think of. He grounded himself by putting a hand over Estelle’s smaller hand, which was clutching his sleeve.

“And exactly how does ‘His will’ translate into ignoring the sick and chasing innocent children down dark alleys?” Aziraphale asked.

“Innocent, ha!” The orderly sneered. “These two tried to escape divine justice and defied God’s servant, Father Richard. He’s seen to it that no hospital or doctor in the city would dare treat degenerates like them who catch the fever. But these two tried to sneak in.” Aziraphale glared as the man pointed an accusing finger. “They’re some of the least deserving, if you ask me. Denying who and how God made them, especially people like _that boy_.”

Boy? Aziraphale scrunched his nose and turned to the back of the alley to see if he had missed another child hiding in the dark. But when he looked back at the orderly, the man was grinning wickedly at the child still gripping the angel’s sleeve. Realization hit when Aziraphale looked down into Estelle’s wide, terrified eyes. He had seen that look so many times over the years… so many beloved, fear-filled faces of those who had been driven into hiding and persecuted and murdered… and here they were again… this little one and all the people on his list who had come here to make new lives just to vanish altogether… new place, same story… Aziraphale was sick of it, absolutely sick of it.

_Enough._

Aziraphale looked up and oh, if looks could kill. (The angel briefly considered making it so.) He stepped forward and faced the orderly. Hit with Aziraphale’s nearly-fatal look, the man’s disgusting grin finally fell.

“I think it’s time you left.” It was a command, not a suggestion.

“Not without that boy I’m not! Wh--!”

Aziraphale suddenly advanced on the man. The air around him shimmered angrily, wings ready to burst from their dimension. Now it was the orderly’s turn to be wide-eyed and terrified. He stumbled back with every step Aziraphale took. 

“The only children here are girls. Healthy ones at that, and both under my care. So I’ll tell you once more,” the angel said, eyes flashing with blue fire. “Just _once_ more--”

But he didn’t have to tell him once more, because the orderly had already turned tail and disappeared around the corner. Aziraphale walked all the way out of the alley to watch him run. The man nearly collided with a pair of lamplighters as he turned another corner, likely heading in the direction of the hospital. Aziraphale allowed himself to smirk, which surely must have been a sight with his eyes still blazing with righteous fury. His job wasn’t done though. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. _That’s it, calm down._ When he turned to reenter the alley the fire was gone and he wore a proper smile. 

“Are you alright, my dears?” he asked. He stopped walking towards them when he realized they might still be afraid. They could even be afraid of _him_ now, though he was unsure what they had seen or sensed. It was an unfortunate side effect of the job at times; a display of angelic power that was meant to strike fear into evil hearts also struck fear into good ones. When the girls didn’t answer he stepped away from the alley entrance to give them a free path should they choose to flee. But he was surprised when a bundle of curls barrelled into him, not past him.

“Oh!” The little one hugging his middle beamed up at him. He smiled back. “Are you feeling alright?” She nodded vigorously.

“About that,” the older sister emerged from the alley. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Miss…”

“Marie.”

“Marie,” the angel placed a hand on his chest, bowed slightly. Marie’s mouth quirked. (Whether from intrigue or incredulousness, Aziraphale couldn’t say.) “May I escort you young ladies home?”

Marie held his gaze for several moments, considering it. “You may,” she finally decided, before kneeling beside Estelle with the little one’s hairwrap. Marie put it back on, and once she stood Estelle took both of their hands and led them down the lantern lit street. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile at the insistent little tug of her hand. He glanced over and saw a similar smile on the lips of the older girl walking beside him.

“How far do we have to go?”

“The pub is just up there,” Marie nodded straight ahead.

“Pub? I thought I was taking you both home to your family.” Aziraphale wasn’t the best at judging human age, but he was very sure they were too young to drink.

“It’s not our home, but it’s where our family will be,” she replied, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “It’s a safe place for people like us, me and Estelle… and you.” The momentary fumble in Aziraphale’s step told her she was right. She grinned.

“That obvious, eh?” He asked.

“Well, you’re a marked man now that you helped us, Dr. Fell. You would need protection from the Church either way. But yes,” Marie turned to look at him, “You are also that obvious.” As sobering as her first two sentences were, Aziraphale genuinely laughed at that. Marie did too. Estelle skipped along, buoyed up by the lightening mood. Aziraphale marveled at how happy he was despite the circumstances. It was almost as if--

“So are you an angel of the Lord, Dr. Fell?” 

Aziraphale nearly fell flat on the cobblestones, blindsided as he was. “Wh-whatever gave you that idea, my dear?” He stammered. They stopped and Marie leveled her gaze at him. 

“Because I can’t figure out how you healed Estelle back there. And normally I’m very good at that. I know rituals, items of power, incantations. You used nothing. So, _how?_ ” Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply but Marie cut him off (which was honestly alright with him, since he didn’t actually know what he wanted to say). “They say the angels working with Father Richard can do magic like that. So is that what you are? An angel?” 

Before Aziraphale could formulate any kind of response they heard a snap. He looked down to see Estelle, who still had a hold of his hand, snap the fingers of her other hand again while looking intently at her sister. 

“Oh. You saw me change clothes,” he heard himself say. Marie’s eyes widened. She looked at her sister who was bouncing up and down, nodding excitedly. They seemed to hold an entire conversation with just an exchange of looks. Then they turned back to Aziraphale. 

“ _You’re just like Madam C_.” 

“Madam who?” Aziraphale asked, but Marie’s only response was to grab his second hand and continue towards wherever they were headed. He heard her muttering under her breath, but all he caught was ‘ _she better…_ ’ 

They reached the pub very shortly after, and once they hit the creaking porch steps Estelle broke away. She threw open the door to disappear inside. Aziraphale caught it and Marie darted under his arm. The angel followed them inside.

He didn’t have any specific expectations for the place, but he certainly did not expect what he found.

The pub was dark, and quiet. He didn’t even notice the two figures across the room until Estelle bounded up to them. Then several things happened at once. The bartender looked up and swore, Estelle made a beeline for the woman leaning against the bar, who gave a mighty “ _Oi!_ ” as the little girl barrelled into her, and Aziraphale? When the woman turned he was struck as well: by her glossy, auburn curls, her sharp, unmistakable profile, the flash of gold behind tinted glasses—

“ _Crowley!?!_ What are _you_ doing here??” 

And so angel and demon met once more. 

* * *

Not far off St. Louis Cathedral stood dark above the Place d’Armes. Inside, Father Richard knelt before the altar alone.

“I beg you for mercy, dear Lord.”

A few solitary candles cast long shadows behind the carved saints and angels of the high altar. Their peaceful expressions contorted in the flickering light.

“I ask not for myself, but for your lost children.”

He felt the satisfying ache in his knees that had been bent far too long. He leaned into it, wincing with the ghost of a smile.

“Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do,” he intoned, thinking of those who resisted his orders, defied God’s will. Sheep who had gone astray. But he _would_ save them.

“Excuse us, Father.” Two young women approached, novices from the convent. They carried a chest between them. “It’s here.” The holy man gripped the altar and stood. 

“Inquisitor Vicente sends his regards.” 

He had them set it on the altar and then lifted the lid.

Inside were branding irons, knives, weights attached to bloody pieces of rope, devices he didn’t even know the name of. He took a piece of twisted metal In his hands.

“The lost sheep _will_ return to the fold,” Father Richard murmured. 

_One way or another..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I keep flipping back and forth between putting this fic on hold or not. I wouldn't stop writing it because I'm really enjoying it and I want to see it through. But I feel a little weird writing an epidemic fic in the middle of an actual pandemic. On the other hand, tags are there for a reason and if people don't want to read it they don't have to. What do y'all think? Keep going?


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